Dining Out

ELBOW  ROOM

 

Outside of Phil and Flo's delly, the wait line extends to the curb. I take a rough count of 20 standees and am able to visualize twenty more inside, snaking their way past the take out counter, past those who stand as close as they can to the A.C. ducts.

 

Those in the wait line bump the one's waving numbers to the take out clerks. The take-outers grumble, push back those who try to squeeze themselves in. The counter men work fast. If too slow on a week-end, they will not be there the following week-end.

 

A hostess stands in front of a chain for the parties of two. Another hostess guards the four and more line. I pity a party of 3. How long will they wait? Fives and more have to wait until two tables next to each other empty at the same time. My mind races in numerals, wonder how this place exists at all.

 

I happen to be a loner today, have important things I want to do at home, like make a few phone calls, answer e mails, mow the lawn or be ready to have a hatchet in my head when my wife, Lenore, asks me again to cut the grass.

 

Yahoo, I see another loner, an old lady who looks confused, tired. I motion to her to join me. I am ignored. A threesome doesn't want me either. Should I leave or move over to the take-out line and bring Lenore a piece of cheese cake? I do nothing but eat my heart out.

 

I move and actually get to see the lunch counter, way to my right. It is full but daringly, I leave my position and walk past the two lady guards, find someone who seems about ready to pay his check  and stand behind him. He motions to the counter man for another cup of Joe , adds a slice of blueberry pie. He eats slowly, relishing every berry, doesn't wipe his blue chin before he stands. When he does, I can't help but notice how low his dirty jeans are. His crack is half exposed. Too long it has been up against the short back rest of the stool which he swings around before he leaves. My choice is take his place or not. I choose 'not', sacrifice my turn to a young woman and feel a bit guilty. She doesn't glance my way, does not respond to my 'good morning' orders a cup of tea with lemon and a brioche.

 

I am not even hungry any more. What the hell am I doing in this nut house, I wonder. Before I walk out I have to pass the take-out counter one more time, am absolutely amazed that the chaotic wait if over. One man has already placed his order for a rye bread sliced with half a lb. of very lean corned beef, a pint of sauerkraut and fries. The  pot is hot, the oil bubbles and the potatoes brown fast.

 

My turn! My turn! 'Give me what the man in front of me just ordered but give me a whole lb. of corned beef. You can leave a tiny bit of fat on some slices.' One, two, three, before I have time to decide on which dessert Lenore might like,  my order is on the counter top.

 

'Oh, add a slice of apple pie and a slice of chocolate cake.' My waiter gives me a dirty look and makes out a new check. I take it to the almost empty line at the cashier and head home.

 

Lenore is waiting. 'Where have you been so long? I fixed myself a cream cheese and jelly sandwich already. Want one?' ' No, thanks.' The corned beef smells so good, I make a thick sandwich for myself, give my wife her choice of desserts and wait, simply wait for her next words----

 

'When are you going to mow the lawn, Big Shot?'